


Lullaby

by magtitude (MMagpieMcCorkle)



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Gen, Horror, Major Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 08:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20061226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMagpieMcCorkle/pseuds/magtitude
Summary: Cillian says he's heading towards the future. Lucy says she's running towards accepting herself. They're both on the runfromsomething -- and towards Silent Hill.





	1. Prologue: Miss/us

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is the big thing I am currently working on (and it will have errors that I'll have to iron out, i'm sure), and it's where _the hush moment_ is from. Sort of; that was written before this.
> 
> Anyway! All warnings will be put in each chapter's notes, and I've got ~secret characters~ who I won't "reveal" until about the end-ish (although if you can guess who they are, their importance, etc -- kudos to you! smarter than me, lol). Keep in mind that this will more than likely be slow to pick up, so if anything _appears_ to be confusing, don't worry about it. Not to mention grammar mistakes (my weakness...).
> 
> I hope everyone who reads this enjoys it, and I'm always welcoming comments and helpful critique.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's in pain. Someone's crying. Someone's keeping a secret. Someone's in trouble.
> 
> Perhaps Daisy should tell someone. Or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prologue! Again, kudos to those who might've already figured things out, lol <3
> 
> warnings: someone's called a bitch but not out loud, if anyone needs a warnings for that

Lucretia’s got a terribly bad stomach ache. It’s why she’s frowning so much while she’s doing Mrs Doyle’s hair. Well, her face is all scrunched up all petulant-like, kiddy-like, like she’s gonna throw a temper tantrum any minute now. Then it goes all to tears, with the sniffling and the hand over the stomach. Fucksake. Daisy watches as Lila guides Lucretia into the backroom for a chamomile tea and vanilla wafer. The woman’s such a fucking _woe-is-me_ attention-lover, even though she doesn’t deserve so much as a lick of acknowledgement, but Daisy keeps her mouth shut.

She wouldn’t be feeling like shit if she behaved like a decent human being. There again, she’s just like everybody else—_papier mache_ for brains, and farts for thoughts. If not straight-up evil.

… No, Lucretia’s not evil, just a thoughtless, air-headed bitch.

But Daisy’s got a job to do too, and she hasn’t even got nearly half as much of an excuse as Lucretia. So she cuts and styles hair, even offering to assist Mrs Doyle instead, and doing it well, well enough that she might have one more old biddy who likes her better than all the other girls and woman. Can’t help but feel a little smug about that.

At the end of the day, Daisy slips into fantasy, dreaming about the kinda stuff she wouldn’t be able to stomach in real life—like finding out where Lucretia lives and knocking on the door and shooting her in the stomach—but it’s all just fantasy to her. Never-gonna-happen daydreams stream through as she sprints through the heavy rain to the bus stop just as the bus rocks up. Should’ve worn the waterproofs.

She doesn’t trust any of the other hairdressers, either. Stuck-up and too much makeup, all caked-on, the old and young. They’d sooner chew her out than be on her side if they knew the truth, anyway. _Cool hair!_ Yeah, there’s a reason for that.

Honestly, she thinks, stuck between schoolkids on a late night out and an elderly couple, she’s probably better off alone anyway. If her now-ex-girlfriend didn’t want to stay, then that’s fine. Just goes to show how important all this really was, if her mum could scare her off so easily.

… But she knows it’s not that. And it’s not just her presumably-ex that’s disappeared into thin air, either. Lucretia’s nephew, Simon or Something, hasn’t shown up for work at the camera store for the past week, even after his vacation. Odd shit. Frightening, if she gives it too much thought. Making up her own conspiracy theories and giving herself fright.

When she reaches her apartment, there’s three messages on the voicemail. Daisy shucks off her now-sodden coat and presses play.

> ** _Message one._ **  
_Hey Daisy, it’s Mum. Just thought I’d let you know that I’ll be on my way up later this week to check how you’re doing. I know you’re a big girl, but I get… you know, I think about you! See you later, love you!_

Christ almighty. But at least her mum’s nice.

> _ **Message two.** _  
_Hi Daisy, it’s Chris. Just checking to make sure that everyone’s functioning alright where you are. If not, give me a call and I’ll see what I can do for you._

Decent landlord—rarer than unicorns, that. And a non-perv, too.

> _ **Message three.** _  
_It’s me. Lucy—_

She sounds (sounded) out of breath; Daisy holds her own.

> _—oh God, I—I’m sorry for bailing, babe, but I’ve gotta go. I’m so sorry, I love you—_

A sniffle.

> _—oh God, babe, I’ve really fucked up._
> 
> ** _End of messages._ **

Daisy doesn’t move for a long time. All her conspiracy theories come back like a freight train. She doesn’t call the police.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments & (helpful!) critique are welcomed!


	2. Chapter 1: Sound Advice: “Don’t Go To Silent Hill”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cillian could go anywhere in the world (country) if he wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mention of prison-related things (you know), mention of Cillian getting stabbed and (physically) assaulted and struck by lightning, brief ableist language (very light, perhaps, but better warned than not)
> 
> expect infrequent updates; i was gonna post this on the weekend. also i'm aware that the references to prison release is more than likely inaccurate--don't worry about it 8)

Hail on the windscreen and passenger-side window rips Cillian from jerky sleep—hopeless venture anyway, seeing as the road seems to be full of potholes and the guy he’s hitching a lift from is going all out on the gas to get to wherever on time—so he squints and sinks back into his seat, a grimace growing at the pale, cloud-hidden sunlight. “How long I been ‘sleep?” he asks, his voice sleep-rough.

The driver shrugs and grunts. Not unfriendly but focused on the apparent task. It grates on Cillian’s nerves a bit, but at least it’s not as bad as prison. As thin as a twig when he first went in, people thought he was easy meat. He proved to be _crazy and unfuckable_ meat. The doctor on the psychiatric ward might have something about how Cillian regards himself in that place, with those words, but he’s long past that now—_skip parole, collect your meds, don’t be a naughty boy again_. Of course, there were other reasons too for his early release, but—important thing is, he’s free as a fucking bird now! _Special boy gets special compensation prizes._ Is that even the right term? Compensation prizes? Who cares! Freedom is all his!

His leg starts acting up again, twinging with static numbness (at first, always at first before the fiery flare that makes him wanna hack his own leg off), so he jiggles it about in the space he’s been given. The driver gives him a glance before refocusing back on the road, and what the hey, dude’s been gracious enough to offer Cillian a lift in the first place, and even more gracious to just be an all-around decent person without commentary, so he explains. “My leg gets all numb and stuff when I’ve been sitting too long. Or standing too long.” He gives a good few hard pats to the lean meat of his thigh before kneading into it again. “Because I got stabbed.”

“Ya got _stabbed_?” Now there’s some bug-eye. Makes Cillian feel all special, like a centre-stage entertainer.

“Yup!” Far too excited to explain, when the memory itself was terrifying. “Almost had my balls ripped off too. Hell of an experience, honestly! Being struck by lightning was a mere pleasant tingle in comparison.”

“Struck by—” Oh, he’s got Mr Truck Driver’s attention now. “Fucking _lightning_?”

“Yup!”

Mr Truck Driver turns his attention back to the road, ever careful. He mutters, “Bullshitting me!” under his breath, glancing at the intersection signs. There’s a particular pinch in his jaws when they pass. Cillian doesn’t give it much thought other than a bunch of (admittedly paranoid) _what-if_s.

“Most certainly not, my guy! I got struck by a bolt when I was seven, I swear on my _life_, and I was basically untouched except for a scar down my back.”

“You got hit by lightning and you didn’t even get your _brain_ fried?” A little annoying that the most gracious truck driver in the world is sounding a little sceptical, but it’s not the wildest thing that’s happened to him, if he’s going to _try_ to be fair.

“I mean… not as far as we know. Mighta done something to my brain way back when, but I was seven, and seven-year-olds are weird as hell anyway, yeah?”

“Oh yeah, that’s… that’s definitely true.”

“… You got any kids?”

“Me? No, no.” But the pause he’d tiptoed over before was making Cillian’s gears grind—what is it Mr Best Truck Driver In The World knows about the weirdness of little kids? “But you know, some kids just come up to ya, right? And… well, kids are just weird all around.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get what you mean.”

They both fall into a lapse of quiet, the questions about kids throwing them off the joviality of Cillian’s brushes with strangeness and near-death. A shame, because Cillian would love to go on about the weirder stuff he’s gotten into when he was younger. As it is, the lull in conversation is semi-comfortable (and half-not, by reasonable logic), and Cillian leans back again, squishing up against the passenger-side door while still kneading his leg while the tinglies are still lingering.

“Ya say where ya headed?”

Cillian turns his head back to the driver. “Uhhh, no I didn’t.” A shrug. “Wasn’t thinking of anyway in particular.” As long as it was far away, he didn’t give a shit where he ended up.

“Right.” Driver’s angling for something—a question or some piece of road-weary wisdom, he’s sure. He’s not up to that sorta thing right now, much as he likes the guy, and anything like that is just gonna set his imagination running wild. “Just—” There’s the hesitation, the tell-tale hook that’s saying, _believe me, I’m telling you for your own good, I swear._ “Do me a favour, yeah?”

“For what?” A frown digs in without Cillian giving it too much notice.

“Just—don’t go to Silent Hill.”

Oh.

“Anywhere else—Hell, I’ll drop you wherever, but stay away from that place. It’s no good, ‘specially for someone like you.”

Oh, there is nerves, tangible nerves in the cab of the truck, more nerves than oxygen, sweating from the driver’s skin and itching around under Cillian’s skin. A town with bad history, or bad people—a bad reputation. Sure, Cillian’s heard things, but those have all been from loons anyhow. Maybe Mr Driver’s a loon. Could he jump out of the cab at the speed they’re going and survive? Depends if he hits a guardrail on the way out.

And what he knows doesn’t mean anything.

“What d’you mean?” Sitting up a little straighter, wondering what it is the driver’s got into his head to have him warn Cillian, _especially_ someone like Cillian.

“I mean you’re _obvious_. Some tragic shit you’ve had to do, some unimaginable and terrible history you’ve got, and that town will put you through the goddamn wringer.” The speedometer starts to rise. Driver’s not looking at the road. Going straight. So far. “You go there, you might not come back out.”

“_Might_ not.” Cillian nods towards the windscreen. “Watch the road, bud.”

“Right.” Driver’s grip on the wheel is stronger than iron, bonewhite knuckles and creak of wheel leather telling Cillian so. “Promise you won’t go there.”

“Don’t much want to, anyway.” A shrug. “Shithole.”

The driver laughs a laugh of relief, tension bleeding out of his shoulders and his knuckles a more normal colour, and keeping his eyes on the road as before. Thrown from normal and decent guy to crazed concern and back again. _Cheese-on-rice._ “Alright, good. I just—” Threads a hand through what’s left of his hair under his cap before relocating back to the 2 o’clock position on the wheel. “I’ve… heard things, ya know? Didn’t want you to end up going there and go missing. You seem a good enough kid.”

“I’m twenty-four, twenty-five next week.” Still, the concern is touching. Feels bad for the guy for getting in such a way, though.

(And the driver’s not just heard things, has he?) (_Where’re you getting that idea from, Cillian?_)

Driver laughs again. “That’s a kid to me, kid.”

Cillian snorts, and rests back again.

“So, drop you off anywhere?”

“Anywhere but there, yeah.”

The driver heads on towards Brahms.

(What did the radio say about traffic?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments & (helpful!) critique are welcomed!


End file.
